


Lie-In

by editingatwork



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, Fingering, Fluff, M/M, Marathon Sex, Oral Sex, handjobs, these two are gross and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9437312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editingatwork/pseuds/editingatwork
Summary: Tater suggests they spend twenty-four hours in bed. It's more intense in a number of ways than they expect.





	

“Twenty-four hours,” Tater says. He’s looming over Kent on his oversized leather sofa, one hand down Kent’s pants and the other up Kent’s shirt. He’s been sucking a hickey on Kent’s neck for what’s felt like the last  _hour_. Kent’s been sinking into incoherence ever since those talented fingers found his dick and started pumping it, tight and insistent and slow. He’d mumbled a few things into the cool apartment air, expletives of encouragement and adoration, and then, off-hand, “Fuck, I could do this all day.”

Alexei  _motherfucking asshole_  Mashkov had stilled his stroking and looked up. “All day?”

Kent had squirmed, his dick still tight in Tater’s fist, and said, “Literally all day.”

Which brings them to now, with Tater looking down at him and giving Kent’s dick an experimental slow pull as he says, “Twenty-four hours.”

Befuddlement brings Kent out of his lust-filled, dick-focused daze. “Yes?”

“Twenty-four hours,” Tater repeats. “You and me, in bed. All day. No getting out, except for bathroom and maybe food. Twenty-four hours, in bed, just sleeping, kissing, fucking.”

It’s the most romantic time-waster anyone’s ever suggested to Kent.  _Especially_  because Tater’s eyes are glinting like it’s a challenge.

“Yeah,” Kent says, and fuck, he can feel himself getting harder the longer he looks at that smirk on Tater’s face, the more he thinks about being stuck in a bed all day with nothing to do but fuck Tater silly. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do it. Name a day, I’ll bring the condoms and the takeout.”

Tater leans down and kisses him. It’s softer and sweeter than his wicked smile would have suggested he was feeling, and it doesn’t match the sly edge in his voice when he says, “I bring Gatorade and lube.”

Kent grins. “God, I fucking love you.”

Tater’s smile softens. “I love you, too.” Then he ducks down to mouth wetly at his neck while his hand starts its slow jerk of Kent’s dick again, and Kent’s mirth turns to quiet, needy moans.

\--

They pick a Saturday and commit to it. Kent makes sure nobody’s expecting him at any press events or Junior League practices, and Tater does the same. They decide to use Tater’s bed, because Tater lives in a condo instead of a swanky Vegas apartment complex like Kent does, and Tater’s less likely to have teammates randomly dropping by.

(Kent once had Swoops drop by unannounced and come face-to-face with one of Kent’s one-night-stands making coffee for himself in Kent’s kitchen. It was how Kent had ended up coming out to his teammate, an incident he never wanted to repeat in his entire life, for how simultaneously embarrassing and terrifying it had been. He was lucky that Swoops was a cool guy, who not only had zero hang-ups about Kent being bi, but he also apologized for coming over without calling or texting first. Swoops was the first person Kent had felt completely safe with in Vegas.)

Kent’s been staying with Tater for a lot of the weeks of off-season. His clothes are already in the closet, and the bathroom is filled with his toiletries. They’re not out to the public but everyone who matters already knows, and so it’s not exactly questioned when Kent flies out to Providence for long stretches of time.

For this particular day, Kent flies into Providence on Friday afternoon and picks up supplies on his way over from the airport. His skin has been tingling since the plane’s wheels hit the ground. When he knocks on Tater’s door, Tater opens it, lets him in, and kisses him,  _chastely_.

“Six AM, tomorrow morning,” Tater murmurs against Kent’s mouth. He pulls away and Kent’s already aching for him back. “I’m cook steak for dinner.”

“I got takeout.”

“Greasy food later, Kenny. One last healthy meal before we have lazy day.”

Kent concedes and follows him into the kitchen, where he puts the takeout boxes in the fridge. 

What follows is the most sexually frustrating evening of Kent’s life. It’s not that they’ve never had a dull, sexless night in. They’ve had plenty. They’re professional athletes who exhaust themselves quite often, and sometimes neither of them wants more than a quick dinner before turning in early. What’s different now is that Kent knows he can’t touch. They agreed to wait until the start time to start fucking. Kent had seen the logic in that last week, when he’d been thinking about how great it would be to have saved himself up for the marathon lie-in.

Now, he wants to murder past him with his bare hands, because he’s looking at Tater’s pecs outlined under his t-shirt due to his bulging shoulders stretching it across the chest and he wants to kick his chair back and leap across the table.

“For the record,” Kent says through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, “the decision for us to wait until tomorrow to start having sex was both genius and total idiocy. I hate both of us so much right now.”

Tater’s cheeks are flushed--could be the wine, could be arousal, probably it’s both--but he says calmly, “We thank ourselves tomorrow.”

“Six fucking AM,” Kent mutters, and mauls his dinner.

In Tater’s room, there’s a shrink-wrapped 12-pack of Gatorade, a box of condoms, a new bottle of lube, deodorant, a bottle of waterless shampoo, and a change of clothes for each of them.

They go to sleep naked on opposite sides of the bed. Anticipation is making Kent feel ready to jump out of his skin. He thinks it’ll take him forever to fall asleep, but the little lingering bit of jetlag makes it easy.

He wakes up with Tater’s arms around him, hot breath on his nape, and a morning woody rubbing a wet mess into the back of his upper thigh. He stirs, touches Tater’s hands deliberately so Tater knows he’s awake, and is treated to a deep, sleep-scratchy voice groaning, “Kenny.”

“W’time’zit,” he manages. Tater’s hands have gone from lovely cradling him to sensually stroking his stomach.

“Five forty-seven.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Kent hisses.

“Mm, want to.” Tater shifts, and suddenly his dick is in the cleft of Kent’s ass. “Want fuck you into mattress, on your stomach, make you rub off on bedsheets. Can I?”

Kent bites his lip and covers the fingers teasing his skin with his own. “Fuck, please.” He tries to shove Tater’s hands downward but Tater resists. “Alexei, come on.”

Behind Kent, Tater stretches to check the bedside clock. “Five-fifty. Is ten minutes.”

“Nobody’s gonna fucking know.”

“I’m know. You know.”

“You’re killing me,” Kent whines, but he doesn’t push. He lets Tater touch him, nibble the back of his neck and the ball of one shoulder, splay one hand across Kent’s abs and rub the underside of one rib with his thumb. They’re both hard and panting a little, and Kent thinks the amount of touching and rubbing they’re doing probably counts as cheating. But he’s not gonna fucking call Tater on it, hell no.

Kent knows it’s finally six AM when Tater gives a little sigh and rolls his hips into Kent’s ass; not teasing anymore, a good thrust. He’s so wet and hard that it makes Kent shudder.

“Yes, fuck yes, let’s go.”

Tater does exactly what he said he would, but he goes about it  _slow_. Kent can’t believe Tater manages it because it sounds like it’s killing him to wait as much as it has been killing Kent. Tater’s touching and biting and rubbing his dick between Kent’s asscheeks, and moaning low in his throat every time he does. He sounds like a lion stuck in a cage.

“Going to fuck you so good, Kenny,” Tater’s panting into Kent’s ear. “Make you see stars, make toes curl.”

“Yes,  _yes.”_

Tater abruptly rolls away. Kent’s left cold and aching with want and wondering what the  _fuck?_  when he hears the box of condoms being ripped open. Tater comes back soon enough, heavy body blanketing Kent.

“I’m finger you now, okay?”

“Mm,” Kent purrs. He lifts a hip to wiggle one hand beneath him, fists his dick. Soon Tater’s wet fingers are pushing inside him--one at a time, inch by careful inch. They’re bigger than Kent’s but just as dexterous. Kent splays his legs wide, and then grins when a needy groan rumbles through Tater’s chest and across Kent’s back. He’s halfway pinned to the bed under Tater’s weight, with nothing to do but take it.

He can see the morning sun just starting to creep in through the window blinds. From here he can’t see what time it is. It doesn’t matter, though. They’ve got all day. They’ve literally got all day.

“Babe,” he says, voice muffled by the pillow. He turns his head to the side, feels Tater nuzzle his cheek. “You’re a fucking genius.”

The chuckle he gets from Tater tells him that Tater agrees, even if he doesn’t know what, specifically, Kent’s calling him a genius for. “How are you feel?” He curls his fingers in and down, making Kent whine.

“Fucked open.”

“I’m fuck you more open.”

Kent feels Tater shifting to slide on a condom, then press the head of his dick inside him, and Kent moans. “God, please.”

Tater pushes in like a glacier carving canyons through bedrock. Kent keens into his pillow and pushes back, wanting more. Finally,  _finally_ , Tater is fully seated inside. One hundred percent of his body weight is flattening Kent to the bed sheets. Almost none of that changes when he pulls back, just slightly, and then thrusts back in. Then again, a little harder.

“Still feeling okay?”

“Want you to move,” Kent says.

Tater does. With his legs and his upper body keeping Kent down, he fucks with sharp, slapping thrusts that roll Kent’s hips into the bedsheets and push his dick against his hand. He feels hot and liquid, his body still barely half-awake, every nerve alight with sensation while his brain muddles through the concept of consciousness.

Kent clenches the pillow in his free hand and moans into it. Words pour out of him. “Fuck yes, like that, God that feels good. Feels so good, baby. Ah, fuck, fuck,  _fuck_ \--”

Kent comes hard, the orgasm shaking through him. Tater moans and bites his ear, says, “Kenny,  _Kenny,”_ still going, still fucking him. A knee shoves Kent’s legs wider.

“Tha’s it,” Kent mumbles, hard consonants escaping him. “Fuckin’ use me, baby, you’re coming soon, I feel it.”

“ _Kenny_.” And Tater does come, like a freight train, pushing in hard, his teeth in Kent’s shoulder. Tater curls around him and makes cold spots on Kent’s skin with his sloppy, loving kisses. Minutes pass as their breath slows and their skin cools, the rush of the moment of completion fading into warm satiation.

“My hand’s goin’ numb,” Kent mumbles eventually, and pulls the hand out from under him. His fingers are wet with come. “We got tissues somewhere?”

Tater grunts in confirmation, and then, after a long moment that reeks of reluctance to move, he heaves off of Kent and reaches for the nightstand. Several soiled tissues and a discarded condom later, Kent rolls out of his wet spot and cuddles up to Tater, who slings an arm around him. Fingers trace nonsensical shapes on Kent’s arm. Hot breath rustles his hair as Tater turns his face to press a kiss to Kent’s forehead.

Kent sighs contentedly. “That was awesome.”

“Always is, with you.”

“Such a fucking sap,” Kent chirps, but there’s a grin on his face. “What time is it?”

Tater cranes his neck. “Six thirty-one.”

“Twenty-three hours and twenty-nine minutes to go.”

“Mm.” There’s a long pause, and then Tater says, “You wanting coffee?”

Normally, Kent would. But there’s streaks of sunlight across his bare skin, a hot body smelling of sex and sweat beneath him, and nowhere for him to be until tomorrow morning.

“Nah,” he says. “Think I’m gonna go back to sleep.”

“Okay.” Tater snags a book off the nightstand and props it open on his chest. 

Kent dozes, who knows for how long. All he knows is that when he next opens his eyes, the sun through the window has migrated several inches, and Tater is snoring.

Kent kisses his way up Tater’s neck and sucks on his ear until Tater groans and stirs.

“I thought I’d blow you, this time,” Kent says, and smirks when Tater’s reaction is to moan and grope Kent’s ass.

Later, after Kent has sucked cock ‘til his jaw aches, he fucks the solid crease of Tater’s thighs. Then they take turns running to the bathroom to brush their teeth, and then into the kitchen for cans of Starbucks Doubleshot and the cold takeout Kent brought home the other day. They eat breakfast naked and talk about nothing. Kent hand-feeds Tater a piece of orange chicken and kisses the sauce off his face, then lets Tater suck his messy fingers. It turns into lazy making out, Kent half on top of Tater as they lie sideways on the bed to avoid knocking over the food.

After breakfast, Kent puts the food away and chugs half a Gatorade. Tater drinks the rest of it, pulls on a clean shirt, and then takes a nap. Kent plays games on his phone--no internet for either of them, another rule, although pre-downloaded phone games are allowed--and watches the sun slide off the bed and onto the carpet.

Tater wakes up around noon. They eat the rest of the takeout for lunch. As soon as the greasy boxes are in the trash, Kent straddles Tater and kisses him, deep and slow. By now they’ve each come twice and can stand to draw it out. It takes a while for them to get hard, and even when Kent starts a slow grind in Tater’s lap, it’s unhurried; luxurious. Tater runs his hands all over: up Kent’s thighs, squeezing his ass, tracing each vertebra up his back. Soon Kent’s tingling and gasping with the stimulation. When he pulls back to look, he sees that Tater’s got a splotchy blush all up his chest, neck, and face, and his eyes are glassy.

“Your hand,” Kent says, sounding winded even to himself. 

Tater wraps a hand around them both and smears their precome with his fingers. Kent shudders and jerks into the touch, feeling Tater tense and moan in return.

Tater jerks them off and they take many long minutes to come. Kent feels the orgasm like it’s being wrung out of him. Tater’s totally quiet as he comes, but he goes so tense it’s like he’s going to break apart.

They clean up, drink more Gatorade, and then lie together, just touching with hands and thighs and feet.

“Ско́лько вре́мени?” Tater asks.

Kent sits up halfway to look at the nightstand clock. “Three-ish.”

“Fifteen-ish hours left.”

Kent slumps back onto the bed, exhausted from the effort it took to sit up. He’s so fucked out, it’s hilarious. “I’m starting to think we should have paced ourselves better.”

“You saying you’re tired already?” Tater teases, but there’s a winded quality to his voice that suggests he feels just as limp-noodle as Kent. “Maybe next time we make orgasm schedule.”

Kent tires to laugh but it comes out like a wheeze. “Six AM, blowjobs. Breakfast, nap, then coffee. Mutual jerking off. Lunch.”

“Post-lunch nap,” Tater adds. “Fingering. Fucking.”

“Your dick or mine?”

Tater shrugs, the movement pulling slightly at the bedsheets. “We flip coin.”

“Romantic,” Kent says, but he’s smiling.

They lay in the hazy silence of mid-afternoon. Kent stares at the ceiling absently. It’s white and spackled and has a faded water stain that Kent’s gaze is always drawn to when he’s flat on his back in Tater’s bed. The walls are cream, a color that Kent had been dubious of when Tater picked it out and then the whole time they were painting it on, but it’s grown on him. It always looks good in the morning, with the splashes of color wandering across it at sunrise. Kent’s spent so many mornings waking up to it that sometimes it’s more jarring to see the deep blue walls of his Las Vegas apartment; to hear the beep of his own coffee machine; to cook dinner on his own electric stove instead of Tater’s gas one. Tater’s condo has soaked into Kent’s bones, become part of him down to the marrow. Regardless of distance, Kent hasn’t felt separate from Tater’s life in over a year.

Tater nudges Kent’s foot with his own. “What are you thinking?”

Later, Kent will blame the overdose of endorphins on the words that come out of his mouth. “I wonder if this is what being married is like.”

There’s a long stretch of silence. Kent swallows his take-backs before they can escape his throat.

Tater says, quietly, “Maybe someday, we find out.”

And God, Kent almost can’t breathe through the sudden, shuddering flood of  _want_. “Yeah. Maybe someday we will.”

Tater’s hand finds Kent’s and links their fingers together. They’re both quiet for a long time. Eventually, Kent feels his bladder complaining and he sits up. “Bathroom,” he says, looking back at Tater.

“Okay.” Tater strokes his hand down Kent’s back. “Bring me another coffee?”

“Sure. Don’t want you falling asleep too early, old man,” Kent says, and Tater swats his ass as Kent climbs out of bed.

The tail end of the day goes at a crawl. Kent likes being in bed and he loves being in bed with Tater, but after over twelve hours of it, he’s getting a little bored. He’s not sick of it, though, and he joins Tater in pulling on the clean clothes they’d left out and settling in to read or listen to music. Kent leans against the pillows and Tater leans against him. Kent slings an arm around Tater’s shoulders, and Tater sinks lower, until he’s just at the right height for Kent to run his fingers through his hair.

Kent’s absorbed in his book, so he doesn’t notice Tater’s fallen asleep until he hears a soft snore.

“It’s like seven PM,” Kent whispers fondly. He goes back to his book and reads for another hour. Tater sleeps soundly, only shifting once to lie down fully and curl up on his side.

Just looking at him makes Kent feel like joining him. There’s still stray bits of sunlight coming in through the blinds, just enough to make it feel like early evening. But Kent puts his book aside, gets under the sheets, and spoons Tater. He nuzzles Tater’s nape and inhales the salty, rich smell of unwashed skin. Neither of them has showered since the previous night, twenty-four hours ago. It smells rank, and like Tater, and therefore like home.

Kent falls asleep as the last shreds of sunlight fade from view.

He jolts awake in the middle of the night, Tater’s mouth soft on his.

“Sorry,” Tater whispers. The room’s not pitch black but to Kent’s unadjusted eyes it feels that way. Tater’s not something Kent can see, just a jumble of impressions of hand, lips, knee, chest. Tater repeats his apology and adds, “Not mean to wake you up. Just want kiss you.”

Kent kisses him back. They don’t talk after that. Tater goes down on him, fishing out a condom from  _somewhere_  and rolling it over Kent’s dick that managed to get half-hard in the night. Tight, wet heat enveloping him gets Kent the rest of the way up. Tater sucks him tight and slow, one hand making up for the few inches of Kent he can’t take in, and with everything in Kent’s vision just a dim, hazy suggestion of solid shapes, all his focus narrows down to what’s being done to him. He barely talks, just pants and whines and lets little punched-out gasps of “Shit!” and “ _Alexei_ ,” and “Fuck,  _fuck--”_ escape him.

He comes with two hands twisted in Tater’s hair and his toes curling into the sheets. Catching his breath feels like getting up off the ice after having the wind knocked out of him.

“Gimme... gimme a sec,” he says faintly into the darkness. “I’ll get you, just a sec.”

Bedsprings creak and the mattress shivers as Tater crawls back up to Kent’s side. He kisses Kent’s sweaty temple. “No rush.”

Minutes later, Kent has one hand around Tater’s dick and the other riding the nape of Tater’s neck as Tater groans and shivers against him. Tater kisses him, open-mouthed and helplessly sloppy. When Tater comes, it’s on a loud, aggressive half-shout, half-moan, and his whole body shakes like the pleasure is an earthquake breaking him apart.

Kent holds him afterwards. He has no idea what time it is. It feels like time has stopped. He’s got Tater’s face in the crook of his neck and a thick leg between his. He’s sticky and overheated and gross and never wants to leave this exact spot ever again.

Tater’s breath has gone slow, but there’s still a soft flutter of eyelashes on Kent’s skin when Tater blinks. He’s being weirdly quiet.

Kent’s not scared of the silence, though. “What are you thinking?” he whispers. 

Tater’s throat clicks as he swallows. “Think I should be scared, how much I love you. But it’s best thing I ever feel.”

There was a time when hearing that would have made Kent feel sick. Kent wraps his arms around Tater and hugs him tightly. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It is.”

Tater hugs him, too.

“It’s been a good day, huh?” Kent asks.

Tater brings his head up and rubs Kent’s nose with his. His smile is the biggest and happiest that Kent’s ever seen. “Is not done yet. You want to go back to sleep?”

Kent probably could. He doesn’t want to, though. “Nah. Hey, how many hours ‘til sunrise?”

“Two.”

“Wanna stay awake for it?”

Tater does. They straighten their clothes and get comfortable on the bed, watching the window. Kent murmurs something about breakfast, and Tater mentions a practice he has to attend on Monday, but it’s all just soft conversation, filling the air, idle substance.

Soon the gray sky turns shy yellow and then mild rose and orange, a hint at the brilliant gold rays to come. As light seeps into the room and spots of sun begin to streak across the walls, the bed, and the water-stained ceiling, Kent looks down at his hand, caught in a patch of early lemon-yellow. He shifts his fingers under the light and thinks about what a silver or gold band would look like on the fourth one, how the metal would glint and shine.

Kent smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> i am on the [tumblr](http://punmasterkentparson.tumblr.com/) thing.


End file.
